Trash Talk and Bob's Bread

I saw this adorable clip on Facebook a few days ago, definitely worth a watch if you’d like to get a few more of your happy synapses snapping. It’s of triplet girls--about three years old--dancing around the driveway in their anticipation of giving their trash collection guys each a cold Gatorade.  http://www.fox29.com/news/152141850-story

I found this especially endearing in light of my recent attempt to show gratitude--FAIL. 

Here’s where I think I went wrong: I just assumed that a colorful pink and lavender gift bag with a ribbon and a note on it that read “Thanks for taking such good care of us” propped on a standard-issue blue L and K trash container would immediately catch the eye AND curiosity of the can dumper. Hunh-uh.

When I heard the truck, I looked out in time to see the gift bag being slung into back of the truck. I ran out yelling “Wait, wait!” The guy in the back yelled at the guy in the front to shut down the grinder and watched me with alarm as I approached. Who knows what he thought might have accidentally gotten into the maws of the beast. 

I explained that it was a gift for them. He went back to the truck and pulled out the bag, relatively unscathed, containing two home-made loaves of Bob’s* bread that were still warm. There followed an awkward presentation and three-way expressions of gratitude as the driver took the bag to the front of the truck and I smiled a bit uncomfortably watching our weekly detritus tumble in with our neighbors' and waved a cheery goodbye. 

Here’s where I think I went right: Both workers were missing teeth, both were probably never going to live at place like Four Mile Ranch where groceries also go liberally to horses, and dogs, and cats, oh my. And they really do do their job well. They take whatever I put out, including dubiously wrapped globs of cat litter, broken-up branches in bundles, stuff I can't identify leftover from Four Mile's former life as a cattle ranch, and way more stinky garbage than I would have thrown out back in the city where we didn’t have to baby along a septic system.

So on a scale of awkward, it was way up there. But on a scale of good intentions, it was just as high. Next time, I’ll make sure I’m waiting in the drive with a cute kid dancing around to class things up a bit.

*Bob’s Bread 

Bob’s bread is the creation of Bob Winn--my husband’s friend since kindergarden--who grows his own vegetables and fruit and along with high school sweetheart wife Sue lives a life so right-headed and purposeful and enviable it can make you weep. I’m sure he won’t  mind my sharing the recipe here.

Note: This makes five loaves, so you can always give one or two away just before dinner time and become very popular in your neighborhood.

Original Recipe. (He’s still messing about with it with delicious results.)
Bake in five buttered loaf pans at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes.

measure:                 6 C warm water
dissolve:                 2T yeast (three packets quick rise)
stir in:                     1 C honey
add:                        4 C whole wheat flour
                                4 C unbleached white flour

This is the sponge. Stir 100 times and let it rest and rise for an hour--or to top of your largest bowl.

mix in well:          2/3C olive (or veg) oil
add:                       2T salt
stir and mix in:   4C whole wheat flour and 4C oats

or:                          6C whole wheat flour and 2C unbleached white flour

Knead:  Until the ball is smooth but still mildly tacky to the touch, then let it rise in a buttered bowl for an hour. Punch the dough down, and let it rise for another hour. Then shape into five loaves, and, yes, let rise--to tops of the loaf pans--and bake. When done, brush butter onto the tops of the loaves. 

We always eat at least half a loaf immediately with copious amounts of butter. Yes, there's remorse, but it never equals the satisfaction of diving into hot buttered bread right from the oven, so enjoy. Thanks again, Bob.

Be sure to watch this space for 1001 things to do while the dough rises. 

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